Chevaliers
by Altaria Volante
Summary: He often speaks of things he hopes for in early morning hours as we lay in bed and he thinks that I’m asleep. I never correct him, instead giving into my curiosity about the small, secret things he only dares speak of when he thinks no one is listening.
1. Hope

**A/N:** _Chevaliers_ is a group of seven ficlets surrounding what are known as 'knightly virtues'. All contain a female expedition member speaking of one of the men.

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_**Hope:** (v) To cherish a desire with anticipation._

Hope. It's funny now. Before I came here, I don't think I fully understood the meaning of that word. We would say "I hope that cute pilot will ask me out" and "oh, I hope my jeans still fit" and "I really hope she's not mad at me for going to Rachel's party without her." We would hope for frivolous and stupid things. We would hope for simple things that wouldn't matter after an hour or a day, let alone a lifetime. We were short-sighted, thinking that hope was nothing more than magical thinking and a mantra that sounded better in repetition than "I need, I need, I need" or "I want, I want, I want." No one met hope with sad, weary eyes and selfless sighs.

No one until I met Carson.

His spoken hopes are never for himself. He often speaks of things he hopes for in early morning hours as we lay in bed and he thinks that I'm asleep. I never correct him, instead giving into my curiosity about the small, secret things he only dares speak of when he thinks no one is listening.

"I hope we survive" is one he says often. It's the first one I can remember him saying. The context never matters – we face enough crises that it's applicable most days. Survive the Wraith, survive the Genii, survive each other and the perils of the life we've chosen… it never matters. It never changes.

"I hope my family is alright." He says this every evening before the _Daedalus_ docks and delivers written reassurance from the loved ones we left behind. His eyes light up each time he sifts through the stacks of mail addressed to him – I swear, some days it seems like the entire country of Scotland is writing to him – and is reassured that his Mum is feeling well and eager for her tulips to bloom, that his cousin Douglass is studying hard and doing well at university, that his Uncle Bean's broken arm healed up straight after his last run in with trouble at the local pub. He replies to each of them, refusing to type because that's 'bloody impersonal', and instead writing in his long, looping script of the exploits he can tell them about and of the people they'll probably never meet. And when the _Daedalus_ leaves the city, he sits up that night and whispers, "I hope they think I'm safe."

Other nights he whispers hope for those lying in the infirmary – his infirmary. "I hope his leg heals" and "I hope those effects aren't permanent" he mutters into the darkness. He whispers possibilities and probabilities, courses of treatment and drugs of choice. He talks of hope for progress and for insight for his team.

Lately, he's been focusing on one, singular hope. The first hope I've heard him speak for himself. "I hope you forgive me." Over and over into the darkness of his quarters, "I hope you forgive me," each time more pained and more desperate than the last. I never know who the 'you' is that he begs at night, whether he's asking me or God, unnamed persons who haunt his memory or Atlantis herself for forgiveness of sins real or imagined. But he lays there against the pillow, staring at the ceiling repeating that phrase over and over until he falls asleep.

Each night, I wait until his mutterings have regressed into slow, steady breaths and he's turned onto his side in sleep. Each night, I wrap my arms around his waist and press myself flush against his back and whisper, "I forgive you."

Each night, I hope that's enough for one more day.

Each morning, I know that it is.


	2. Faith

_**Faith:** (n) Allegiance to duty or a person or something that is believed especially with strong convictions._

Rodney McKay is a man of faith. My colleagues are surprised every time I make that statement, and I don't blame them. I had much the same reaction after my own revelation. I don't speak of it much anymore, save for my personal notes on his rare visits and even rarer formal sessions. The others may not believe me when I say it, but I stand by my diagnosis.

Rodney McKay is a man of faith.

It's not the typical faith one associates with the turn of phrase. As far as I'm aware, Rodney never had a burning desire to join the clergy of whatever religion he subscribes to, if there ever was one. He's not a saint or a holy man, no sage or shaman. He's rarely wise and is an exceedingly dreary source of council concerning anything outside of his academic field. His faith is not traditional, but it is there.

Rodney has faith in himself. Most construe this as arrogance and intellectual narcissism. It goes much deeper than that. It's more than a face of confidence. He has true faith in himself and his abilities.

He has faith in his intelligence. Rodney studied long and hard to know what he knows today. He brushes it off as coming easily to him, but I've seen his file. I know more than he wishes for me to know. Rodney is a continual student, absorbing the world around him and quickly categorizing this new information with the knowledge and experience to know that it may very well become useful later. Any small, insignificant piece of information that he can recall quite possibly could be the difference between life and death for him or someone he knows. It would not be the first time this has happened. But he has faith that he knows enough to see us through.

He has faith in his ability to take this wealth of knowledge that he possesses and make choices. Important choices. Quick, life and death choices. He has developed faith in his instincts, and these instincts have only grown over time, regardless of setbacks. I've watched this faith stumble and falter, and each time he allows me to, I attempt in my own small way to set it back on course.

Lately he has developed another faith. One that he will not speak of to the others or to me even in the most private of sessions. Those of us who had the misfortune of meeting him previous to the Atlantis mission, no matter how brief the encounter, have a hard time believing me when I tell them. I don't think that he realizes it himself, but Rodney has developed a faith in others. It may be so hidden that he can't see it in himself, or he doesn't trust his reaction enough to look for it in himself, or he may just be afraid to admit it to himself. But I see it. He now has faith in others, in his team.

I can see it in his eyes and in the way he speaks and interacts with them. He's no longer looking down on Radek as beneath him, but as someone he can depend on to run his labs when he's off-world. He's no longer looking down on the Colonel as a "stupid military grunt", but as someone whose word he can trust. When Colonel Sheppard says that he's going to bring his team home, he will. Rodney has faith in those words now. He's no longer looking down on Ronon and Teyla as "backwater galactic hicks" – one of the more interesting turns of phrase I've heard here – but as trustworthy warriors who have faith in his abilities. This faith is reciprocated by a faith of his own that they will trust and act on his expertise.

He may not realize this. He may never admit it. Others may tell me that I imagine things in him because I want to see him as more than the anti-social grump that he is, or that I'm only trying to find a thread of good in everyone. Regardless of what they say, I have to believe what I see, so I stand by my statement. Rodney McKay is a man of faith.

And his faith encourages me to have faith in him.


	3. Courage

_**Courage:** (n) Firmness of mind or will in the face of danger or extreme difficulty._

There is a story told by my people of a young boy named Borin. He was a good boy; kind and helpful to his mother, courteous to his father, loyal to his friends, and reverent of the Ancestors. At this time, long ago, Athos was at peace, as were all the worlds connected by the Ring. All was as the Ancestors made it. Until, one day, a great scream came from within the Ring of the Ancestors. What was usually the light and friendly tones of welcome visitors now was cold, sharp and piercing. This great scream echoed over Borin's village as the dark intruders flew over the land. The houses shook and the people scattered only to disappear where they stood. Borin, being the smart and quick boy that he was, knew that something must be done or else the entire village would disappear.

He made a choice as he stood at the edge of the village. He met the great screaming with a cry of his own, raising his voice in challenge to these dark intruders. They accepted his challenge and as Borin ran through the Ring, the intruders followed him, every one, and the people of Athos were saved.

The story says that Borin ran for many cycles, visiting each of the lands connected by the great Ring, but never stopping, never resting, never pausing for fear that the intruders would catch him and destroy those he stayed with or find their way back to the people of Athos. He pulled them further and further from Athos until they became lost, forgetting the way back to Athos, and sparing Borin's people such a terrible death. But his victory was short lived, for he had forgotten the way home as well. He cried for his home, for his family, and for his people. The Ancestors heard his desperate cries and he was visited by Mana, the mother of the builders of the Great City. She reached out and pulled Borin into her embrace, asking, "Why are you crying, dear Borin?"

"I cry because I cannot go home," he replied. "I do not remember the way."

"What if I showed you the way?" Mana asked, her voice calm and soothing to the boy child.

"Even then I cannot. If I know the way, they will follow me, and I must protect my people."

"You would sacrifice yourself for your people, dear boy?"

Borin nodded. "Yes, oh Mother. I cannot let them return."

Mana smiled as a warm light poured from her hands and enveloped Borin. "You have done a great thing. To sacrifice yourself for other, to run when you have no hope of rest or return so that others may live shows true courage and is worthy to be honored."

Tears streamed down Borin's face. "But what is to become of me?" he cried.

Mana wrapped her arms around him. "Come. We have found you brave, my noble Borin. Lay your head upon my breast and finally be at peace."

Borin did as Mana told him, and he was taken by the light of the Ancestors to finally rest.

As we grow older, the stories of the Runners changed from the story of Borin to new stories of lonely men, trying to survive a cruel game, bringing the Wraith with them to whatever village they dare stop in. We heard these stories, both old and new, but until I came to the City of the Ancestors, I had never met one of these men. In truth, I almost believed them fantasy; nothing more than a relic from a childhood story made more fearful and sad by the reality of the Wraith.

That is, until I met Ronon.

I feel a kinship with him, away from our peoples here in the great City of the Ancestors. We are both alone, even here among Colonel Sheppard's people. However, should I wish to return to my people, to lay down my weapons and return to my people in search of home and hearth, all I must do is travel to the mainland. I speak often with my people, for even though I am here, I am still their leader. Ronon has no such comfort. Should he choose retreat from this life, he has no home to return to, no people. Those that are left are scattered throughout the worlds so that there is no more than a pocket here or a grouping there should he be lucky enough to find them.

And yet, even through this solitude, so many years of solitude, he continues to find it within himself to fight.

I heard words from those in the City when Ronon first returned with us. Words of disbelief and pity. Words disparaging a man who chose to run away for years upon years instead of fighting where they stood. The boys who said such things are young still. They have never fought an enemy such as the Wraith before, but they are learning. I thought of correcting them, of telling them that it took far more courage to face each day with resolutions of 'I will survive and I will fight no matter how small the battle I may win will be' and 'I will run so that they will not cull those who dare show me kindness' than to stand still and succumb to death. It takes far more courage to decide to live than to accept death. Ronon cannot accept death, and I find that admirable.

Many of my people, and truly many of the peoples of this galaxy, expressed feelings of hopelessness concerning the Wraith before those from Earth came to the City. They asked what could they do, for the enemy will come and there is nothing we can do to stop it. They said that it was a fact of life and that we would be much more content should we accept that we may die by their hand. They had far too few stories to tell of brave works against the enemy before us.

For the people of Athos, the story of Borin now has a companion that is told around the firelight, enthralling the children and giving them the courage once more that it is possible to stand against the Wraith and survive.

There is a story told by my people of a young man named Ronon…


End file.
